Gumnut's Star Trek: TOS Ficlet Collection
by Gumnut
Summary: A collection of ficlets not long enough to warrant their own story space. Some may contain spoilers for any season. Includes answers to challenges.
1. Cushion

Cushion  
An on the spot chat challenge  
By Gumnut  
20 Mar 2004

It was in an awkward position.

A very awkward position.

Of course, it was comfortable to a certain extent, and he really couldn't fault Spock for positioning him there, but it was awkward.

It never really helped an officer when his captain managed to get himself shot. So okay, the guy had held the gun up in warning, he had babbled something at him rather loudly, but how was he supposed to know he had just stepped on the chief's favourite pet? For goodness sake, it looked like a cockroach. Hmmm, crunched like a cockroach when you stepped on it too.

He wriggled, desperately trying to get comfortable. Spock looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. Kirk froze. He didn't want to appear ungrateful after all.

"Captain, are you comfortable?"

"Fine, Spock, fine." He swallowed and managed a smile of reassurance. "Bones, on his way?"

"Doctor McCoy will be here as soon as humanly possible, of that I am sure, Captain."

Hmmm, well, here's a vote for the non-humanly possible contingent.

He twisted his neck again, unconsciously, and was startled when Spock touched his arm.

"Do not worry, Jim, all will be well."

Kirk looked up at his first officer and didn't know whether to laugh or just grab his phaser and obliterate himself out of his own misery.

"Spock, I'm fine. Nothing a quick spin with one of Bones' medical contraptions won't fix."

Spock arched another eyebrow, obviously suspicious as to the truth of Kirk's statement.

Kirk knew he was lying through his teeth. Well, sort of.

He was going to be fine.

But how do you tell your best friend who has just gone out of his way to save your life, that the care he is giving you, the support...

How do you tell your friend that his legs are so bony that if you use them for a cushion any longer, you might be permanently paralysed from the neck down?

-o-o-o-


	2. Revenge

Revenge  
By Gumnut  
8 Jun 06

He swung for all he was worth. Because it was worth more than he.

Spock called out to him to stop, but he ignored him.

This…bastard. He had…

His fist landed with a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage. Warm liquid splattered on his knuckles.

The alien stumbled and fell, his beady eyes staring up at Kirk as he clutched at his face, blood flowing freely between his claws.

"Jim!"

Kirk moved in, blinded by anger, and raised his fist again.

A green tinged hand, far weaker than it should have been, reached out and touched him. Kirk spun, just in time to catch his falling first officer. "Spock, you shouldn't…"

His voice, laced with pain, startled him with its desperate weakness. "Jim…he didn't do it…"

"…he didn't do it."

-o-o-o-


	3. Strings

Strings  
By Gumnut  
A scene from STIII:TSFS  
19/28 Jan 2006

He touched it almost reverently, his fingertips brushing across the strings, the soft twang of notes barely heard.

From these same strings came music from another world. Not that other worlds were anything particularly rare around the place these days, but nevertheless, from some place special.

It was wooden, something that was particularly rare considering the ecology of that world. Dry and parched, a challenge that life had managed to overcome for the most part, yet in places still only held on by its teeth. Dry, parched and red. A little ironic that its life blood contrasted so deeply. For on this world, green meant danger more so than ruby.

Soft notes, vibrations against his fingerprints.

He wasn't a xenobiologist or some fancy scientist interested in the bloom of life on another planet. He was not an anthropologist hovering over interspecies interactions. He was simply a starship captain, despite his admiralty, and his brain be damned if he understood half of it.

But he understood enough.

And he listened to the music strung from an instrument light years from its home.

He was no musician himself. His drive as a youngster had left little room for what he considered leisure activities. That drive had led him here, far sooner, far younger than many had predicted, but it had had its sacrifices.

Strings can sing.

Damnit, Spock, why you?!

The wood was smooth, but his fingers caught in the decoration, following its trace blindly. Following the trail…

His head throbbed and his fingers left the instrument to rub at his temples. How many starship admirals broke into a captain's quarters to sit on the floor and mourn, he wondered.

Spock was gone.

Gone. Giving his life in order to save others.

As he had always wanted.

His fingers blurred before his eyes. Fingers that had tried to touch, but…

Spock.

Damnit, why did it have to be you.

He inhaled, but found his throat clogged by misery.

He struggled with himself, but memory surrounded him.

Where he thought he'd find solace he only found pain. Out. He had to get out.

He stumbled to his feet, wavering a moment as his equilibrium fluctuated, and fled the room.

He didn't see the harp teeter as he knocked it. Didn't hear it fall.

Wasn't there when the strings broke.

And the twang echoed in the silence.

-o-o-o-


	4. Invasion and Invader

Title: Invasion & Invader  
Author: Numnut  
Characters: Kirk & Spock  
Rating: PG  
Word count: 104 & 179  
Summary: For a smile.  
Disclaimer: Mine? You gotta be kidding. Money? Don't have any, don't bother.  
Author's notes: A couple of drabblishes, once again originally written for **dreamplum**.

Invasion  
A drabble and a bit  
By Numnut  
21 Nov 2003

Scattered pieces of coloured paper.

Discarded ribbon.

Leftover cake, crumbs hugging the cushions.

He looked around his quarters in dismay, the subtle misplacement of furniture shattering its usual harmony.

Empty plates.

Jammed recycler.

Chocolate smears on the wall.

Spock sighed, ever baffled by human habit, ever stretched to understand the reason or the logic of the human mind.

He picked up a discarded party hat, and twiddled with it, his long fingers dancing along its plasticard surface.

It had almost been an invasion. His privacy bared to many.

He shivered.

The trust had been hard to give.

But the smile had been worth it.

-o-o-o-

Invader  
A drabble and a half  
By Numnut  
21 Nov 2003

He smiled at the memory.

One Vulcan, one party hat, one hell of a picture.

It had sat on his head just askew slightly, his uplifted, puzzled eyebrow nudging it off centre even more, his elegant ears more elf-like than usual.

It had been a joke really, an offhand comment about Spock throwing a party. He had never actually meant him to do anything about it.

But the Vulcan had surprised him.

Research had its uses.

And Jim Kirk had had his birthday party.

He smiled again.

Spock, a balloon, and the basics of static electricity.

The Vulcan had preferred the hat after that.

They had invaded Spock's cabin, and Kirk felt a little guilty. Something like 'they came, they saw, they put it completely out of logical order'. He could almost feel Spock's cringe from across the room.

But Spock had risked, had given.

And Kirk had accepted.

And as he had assessed those dark eyes of his first officer

Despite the disarray, despite the interruption of his privacy

Behind those eyes.

He saw it.

And he smiled.

-o-o-o-


	5. Cherry blossom

Cherry Blossom  
By Gumnut  
9 Nov 2003

The stonework was old, the writing weathered by the wind. Spock's eyes darted across the tombstones, most neglected by the relatives of the deceased, forgotten in the daily tussle that was life. Remembered only by the birds that perched on them.

The path was windy, darting in and out of erratically arranged graves, the cemetery seemingly older than time itself. His Starfleet issue boots caught on the occasional lifted paver leaving a smear of moss on their sleek black.

He had come in search of a memory.

The memory of a vibrant smile and golden gaze.

Now gone.

Taken from him by time.

He knew he would not find it here. But he came anyway.

After several twists and turns, he finally reached the monument, its elegant grace topped by a fluttering flag of the Federation, stark in its newness against the aged and old, and finding the name in the small list, he ran his fingertips over the brass letters.

He had been right.

The memory wasn't here. Just a name. An impression of who the man had been for those who had not known him.

But Spock had.

And he knew he wasn't here.

Spock turned to walk away determined to seek out what he was looking for elsewhere.

But he was stopped as suddenly a breeze swooped in from the still air and churned the trees around him.

Flowers fell in his hair.

He looked up to see the arching branches of an ancient cherry tree, doused in a brilliant display of blossom. The breeze laughed, and petals fell in his eyes, their soft, feather-like touch brushing across his cheeks before falling once again, only to be caught by the earth.

The touch was familiar.

Like the touch of a mind.

The breeze whispered.

And Spock found his memory.

-o-o-o-


	6. Keen

Keen  
By Gumnut  
8 Jun 06

Limping, uniform torn, a lone figure stumbled through the evening twilight.

It was obvious he was looking for someone. He called out a name, his voice breaking on the last consonant, a lost and lonely sound.

He stumbled more than once, his movements poorly co-ordinated.

"Spo-ck?"

Between the trees, over ancient granite boulders, wherever his stumbling drew him. Aimless.

"Spo-ck?"

Until he tripped, his foot catching in a crevice and twisting…snap. He yelped as he fell, hard, the impact shuddering through his body.

He lay still for a moment, stunned.

And then, like a wounded animal, he began to keen.

-o-o-o-


	7. Like it or not

Like it or not.  
A scene.  
By Gumnut  
2003

Spock looked at Kirk.

Kirk looked at Spock.

"What?"

"Captain?"

"Don't you like it?"

"Vulcans do not 'like', Captain."

"Don't be difficult, Spock."

"I am not being difficult, sir."

"You're avoiding the question."

"What question, sir?"

Sigh.

"Do you like it or not?"

"Like what, sir?"

"This!"

"That?"

"Spock!"

"No, sir, I do not like it."

"Why not?"

"I am a Vulcan, Captain. Vulcans do not 'like'."

(Sound of head hitting wall)

"But…"

Plaintive sigh. "Yes, Spock?"

"Do you like it?"

"Of course, I like it, I bought it didn't I?"

"Then I will trust your judgment, sir."

"I give up. Okay, Spock, if that's the way you want to play it, fine. I never thought giving you a simple present would be this difficult."

"Am I being difficult?"

"Yes, Spock, you are."

"Then I will endeavour to be easier for you in the future, Captain."

"Hmmph!"

-o-o-o-


	8. A hand

A hand  
By Gumnut  
8 Apr 2009

Hand reaching…

It was raining. The first rains of fall, the smell of wet dead grass on the air. Water ran into his hair as his bare feet sunk into muddy dust, puffs of disturbed dry dissipating around his ankles. He was alone, the paddock empty, the distance eaten by mist.

He cried out, but no-one heard him.

Reaching…

He was running. The street, dark with night, but lit with oncoming headlights. A silhouette of stunned distraction sketched in fate stood between his love and loneliness.

He cried out, but she didn't hear him.

Reaching…

Cold plastisteel of his own ship, crushed against face, stole the heat from his body. Blood coated his fingers, its sickly warm touch spreading across his back. He could not move. The corridor was empty. He was alone.

He cried out, but he had no voice.

Reaching…

Caught in nothing. Suspended by time and space, the stale smell of old air and plastic and his own perspiration his only company. The hiss of the empty com-line taunted him. His fear echoed off his faceplate.

He cried out, but there was no-one to hear him.

Hand touching…

The hiss of escaping air, escaping heat, the cold fingers of vacuum wrapping around his throat. Flashing lights, yellow, red and unheard sirens. Spinning stars in a well of emptiness disappearing into forever. Pain.

He cried out….

Touching temple…

_I am here. You are safe. You are not alone._

Not alone.

The clatter of security personnel, a flash of blue medical and suddenly he could breathe again.

He closed his eyes…

Familiar desert air filled his nostrils and he sighed with relief. A plain stretched out before him, red in its alienness. Sand burned the soles of his feet.

But he was not alone.

Not alone.

-o-o-o-


	9. Echoes

Echoes  
By Gumnut  
8 May 2009

Sometimes it's shadows, sometimes it's just memory. A flicker in the corner of my eye, the sense of being followed, voices in empty hallways.

I don't suspect my sanity. I've had worse and my mind is still intact. I could suspect ghosts. That explanation would certainly fill the gaps in logic and we've certainly seen enough out here to know we hardly know anything. It's enough to turn a pope agnostic.

Ghosts haunting the bulkheads, yes. But that does not explain the changing faces. Or the changing names.

I've always made a point of knowing as many of my crew as possible. Attempting to get past bare names and ranks and into a little personal knowledge. And before you start smirking regarding the women on my ship, you can pull that tongue out of your cheek. I have a strict policy on intraship relationships. I am not that stupid. However, I am professionally skilled enough to know that 'captain' is more than a rank. The crew needs leadership and to do that I need to know my crew.

I'm not talking buddy in the bar, sozzled and laughing over a few drinks. There are lines that need to be maintained. But to give a freedom that enables a crewmember to greet me in the corridor without fear. A little daunt doesn't hurt in the lower ranks, but fear never works in efficiency's favour.

But the downside of that personal knowledge is just that, knowledge. A double-edged sword.

I know what's missing when it's lost.

And while the names and faces change, the positions do not.

Last week it was Tactical Officer Hollister. This week it is Tactical Officer Jeremy. Hollister's last posting was the ship's morgue via a giant alien bug that felt like munching on starship crew. So far I've only managed to call Jeremy, 'Hollister' twice. I'm betting there will be a third time.

Hollister knew how to knit. Jeremy prefers judo.

Nothing like climbing over a coffin on the way to a promotion. I must remember to give the boy a commendation for not ripping off his commanding officer's head in frustration.

I was reaching for a coffee handed to me on the bridge yesterday, lifted my head to thank Rand, only to confront Yeoman Griffiths.

I never did get a straight answer out of Rand as to why she wanted a transfer. God forbid I stand in her way. Now she is just another face I think I see that I don't.

Crowds appear larger than they are and the corridors are never truly empty. Voices echo and sometimes in the corner of my eye one of them might be standing there where they had stood before. I swear I've seen Gary smile at me from the shadows. Ensign Jenkins visited my coffee cup a couple of weeks ago. I'm blaming Uhura for singing that damn song of his.

Am I haunted? No. Yes. Maybe. Or perhaps it is just memory playing cruel games, a vendetta by my subconscious. But in that direction lies insanity and that is something I can not afford.

So they follow me, ghosts of memory. There one day, gone the next, taunting.

And I dare not wish them away.

-o-o-o-


End file.
